


There but for the Grace of God

by staticsighs



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Spanking, deviancy is original sin okay im pretty sure my theological reasoning there is sound, dicked into deviancy, im just a dramatic lapsed catholic, no one gets fucked with a crucifix or anything, overt and borderline profane religious symbolism but like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 23:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17354516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staticsighs/pseuds/staticsighs
Summary: If Connor's going to act like a brat, then Hank's going to treat him like one. Naturally, from there it spirals downward. Connor is faced with temptation, and makes a choice.





	There but for the Grace of God

**Author's Note:**

> I'm prefacing this with the assumption that when I get to heaven Saint Peter is just gonna look me up and down and start reading this from his Celestial Macbook before sending me to the bad place so you know what, sorry god, in advance, but this was. I had to?  
> Also: it's not dubcon because Connor is absolutely into it, but. Connor does mention rape offhandedly at one point which is worth addressing. And this was also my first time writing machine!Connor but, like, it's just Spicy Autistic vs my normal Sweet Autistic Connor bc i can't imagine a Connor who doesn't love Hank and secretly want him to fuck him, sorry!  
> Oh and Amanda is here, and her behavior towards Connor is. Not. Directly abusive? But it's not Great. Steer clear of their conversation if you need to.

Hank holds his hands up and exhales, long and slow and loud, the cold winter wind whipping his hair across his face, snow catching on the strands as he and Connor stare each other down on the rooftop, Connor’s whole body taut with tension.

“Okay,” Hank says. “Let me just make something very clear: I have tried every other option of dealing with this shit. I have tried to be nice, I have tried to get you to feel guilt, I have tried logic, and reason, and almost getting killed about two times a day. So this is the nuclear option, and I want it on the record that you pushed me to this point, kid.”

Connor, despite himself, cocks his head. “Dealing with _what?”_

“This! _You_! You wanna be a brat, kid? I really tried to keep you in line, but you need a much firmer hand than a few harsh words can give you, I guess.”

Connor blinks. “You? Keep _me_ in line? I appreciate you making it so evident that you cared so little about the mission, but what exactly is the point of all this?”

“At some point I’m gonna have to stand in front of the pearly gates and answer for all this shit, and I just want it explicitly stated for the celestial court of appeals or whatever’s up there, I didn’t make this decision lightly and God isn’t allowed to give me shit for it, okay? Okay. Glad we’re all aware.” Hank pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus. It’s been ages since I’ve done this. Still hope I got a steady hand.”

“What?” Connor huffs, his LED a petulant red. “If you’re going to kill me, would you please just make your vain attempt already, we already both know how this is going to end, Lieutenant—“

The preconstructed scenario in his head is as follows: Hank will use his weight to trap Connor and disarm him, and Connor will prevent this by utilizing Hank’s axis of gravity against him before pulling his arm from his socket and using his weapon should he resist further, to neutralize him as a threat.

What actually happens is Hank picks him up by the scruff of his jacket, holding him aloft with such immediate, swift grace that Connor has about three seconds to scramble for a reconstruction of his scenario before Hank pulls them both down onto a cinderblock ledge built into the rooftop, a broad, flat plateau that he sits down on with a huff.

Connor shrieks in protest, a whirring, wiry noise that makes Hank _laugh,_ which of course just makes Connor screech louder. He pulls himself upright and tries to pin Hank down, but Hank grabs him by the throat, squeezing. Not hard enough to crush anything, which is enough to give Connor pause—why not kill him, throat in hand?—but it’s a firm enough grip that Connor struggles, his hands lashing out to strike at Hank’s broad, stalwart shoulders and push against his chest, struggling against him.

Hank drops his grip from Connor’s throat, but before Connor can use the freedom to his advantage, Hank’s grabbed both of his wrists with one massive hand, holding them steady. Connor bares his teeth in frustration, his LED still blazing.

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Lieutenant,” Connor says, his jaw set with defiance. “We still have a _mission._ You’re being _obstinate.”_

“Oh, _I’m_ being obstinate? Big talk coming from the world’s biggest fuckin’ brat,” Hank snorts.

“I’m not a _brat,”_ Connor insists, still thrashing in Hank’s grip, kicking out petulantly. “I’m a _machine._ You’re treating me like a child and projecting human traits onto me that simply do not exist within my programming.”

Hank twists Connor’s wrists down in his grip, and Connor tries to push back, roll himself off Hank’s lap and kick him, but Hank’s hand is bigger and stronger, and he forces Connor’s wrists down with ease, pulling Connor’s upper half down with them. His legs twist against the motion, but Hank grasps them with his free hand, re-adjusting them so they’re draped over his thighs, the tips of his shoes hovering just above the ground, the rest of him splayed out over Hank’s lap.

Hank sighs, tilting his head back and taking a deep breath, grounding himself as the snow melts in his hair and more slides down his cheeks.

“You wanna act like a brat? Fine. Then you’re gonna be treated like a brat,” Hank says. “One way or another, brat, you’re gonna learn some goddamn manners.”

Connor’s software scrambles for a response. Something near his thirium pump twitches. It’s cold outside of himself, but he’s grown cold inside, too, and Connor lies still, searching for a solution.

“You should’ve tried to break my ankle from your advantageous position,” Connor says, staring down at the rooftop. “To be honest, you could have snapped my neck by now, and have been capable of doing so for at least two minutes. Why do you hesitate?”

“What? Jesus fucking Christ, I’m not snapping your fucking neck, brat, what in the goddamn—“ Hank sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Okay. Gimme a second. We don’t do this angry. I won’t do this angry.”

“Anger is useless,” Connor agrees. “You could just let me finish the mission, and if you do not get in my way, then I see no reason to eliminate—“

“Shut _up,_ brat.”

Despite himself, Connor stills and is silent. Hank exhales, rubbing the side of his face.

“Yeah. Okay. So. Let’s go over what you’re being punished for,” Hank says, one of his huge hands pressed down against Connor’s lower back, holding him in place. “You’ve been a self-centered little brat with no concern for anyone’s feelings, _including_ your own. You’ve disobeyed damn near every order I’ve ever given you, and you’ve got a smart fuckin’ mouth on top of all that.”

His other hand reaches up, rests gently in Connor’s hair. “S’weird, though. Even though you bitch and fuss about being such a big bad machine, I’ve seen so many other androids these past few weeks that I know there’s got to be more there. Think Kamski was onto something with this deviant shit. Gotta be inside you too, right? What’d he call it? A back door. So.”

Connor squirms in Hank’s lap, to no avail. “All right, all right. If you’re convinced I’m a problem, then kill me already, Lieutenant. You could. You might as well. There would just be another of me made and—“

Hank’s hand in his hair pulls, and Connor’s scalp prickles in protest. Hank huffs. “No one’s fucking killing _anyone_ tonight, brat, would you _stop?”_

Connor obeys again, though something in his software stutters to a halt in protest. His processors are scrambling to find him a way out of this conversation, but not fast enough to move his body within all the confusion, so he waits, stomach down and draped helplessly over Hank’s lap.

“My point is,” Hank says, “there’s something good in you, Connor. There’s gotta be. And I’m gonna make you see it, whether you want to or not.”

His hand reaches down and pulls off Connor’s belt, Hank’s fingers slipping open the button holding his pants closed and unzipping them. Connor rolls his eyes and huffs, lifting his head to look up at Hank.

“So, you’re resorting to rape as a means of asserting power? I must admit I’m surprised. I truly thought you above such methods. Where’s your moral high ground now, Lieutenant?”

Hank’s hand jerks away and his face contorts in disapproval. “What? Fuck, absolutely not! I’m not gonna fuckin’ rape you, kid, that’s _disgusting._ Jesus Christ, why is _that_ what you jump to?”

“You’ve got me bent over your lap and you’re currently removing the clothing surrounding my genitals to expose them to your touch. Does that not seem like an obvious conclusion, given the facts?”

“I thought you’d have something on under these, so fucking sue me,” Hank grouses. “What, CyberLife gave you a pussy and told you to go commando?”

“I—“ Connor’s LED blazes red. “That’s. I have no actual need for undergarments—“

“Seriously,” Hank says, edging Connor’s pants down until they’re at his ankles and he can yank them free, leaving Connor naked from the waist down in his lap. “What the fuck was the point of giving a deviant hunting machine a pussy?”

“It’s because of _you_ ,” Connor’s processors whirr, click, presenting him the perfect solution, a subtle knife between Hank’s ribs. “CyberLife knew who they were choosing to partner me with. Given their dossier on you and the fact that they knew you were a divorced man with no current sexual partners, I was fitted with a choice of genitals that might suit your…proclivities.”

Somehow, this doesn’t have the effect on Hank that he’d calculated. That god damned margin of error again. Hank’s storm blue eyes soften and clear up, a sudden summer sky shining warmly down at him. Connor looks away, his LED still circling red.

“Huh. So they told you to sleep with me, and then you didn’t. Doesn’t sound like a machine to me, kid.”

“No one _told_ me,” Connor insists. “I didn’t disobey! It was—it was _implied._ A _suggestion._ I decided I could achieve my intended goals without sinking to such lows, that’s all.”

Software instability prickles on the inside of his skull, like pins and needles in his processors. He takes a breath he doesn’t need as Hank rests his hand on his bare lower back.

“Your goals got you bare-assed on my lap in the middle of a snowstorm, so I can’t help but feel like you really didn’t achieve what you wanted here, brat,” Hank remarks. “What about you?”

Connor tries one last-ditch attempt to break out of Hank’s hold, and mostly succeeds in rubbing his vulva against Hank’s damp, cold thighs and shivering. Software instability pins him like a butterfly to its box.

“Time to make a decision, brat,” Hank murmurs. “Are you a man or a machine?”

Connor opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His processors have ground to a halt. He reaches inward, but there’s nothing coming to him, no garden gates looming upward in his mind’s eye—

“Well,” Hank sighs, “maybe we’ll decide together after this is all over.”

Hank brings his hand down, and the force of the strike shuts something down inside of Connor. He’s not sure _what._ Part of him has gone dark, and the other part of him is blaring software instability warnings at the numb void somewhere secret and forgotten within his biocomponents, near his shin or the back of his shoulder. The sensation starts there, and then spreads outward.

He’s not in any pain, that much he’s sure of. Hank’s hands are big, and strong, and so, so thick, but—but they’re not applying enough pressure to shatter any plating on his chassis, and besides, that’s not an area of his body designed to feel pain.

So why does it _ache?_

Connor marshals his working processors to seek out the source of the pain. Another jolt rocks his body, and he comes back to himself in time to realize Hank’s massive hand is resting on top of his ass, rubbing the surface carefully.

“Nothing broken,” he mumbles, clearly to himself, but it sends another prickle of pins and needles beneath Connor’s chassis.

His processors are still seeking a source for the pain, which leaves Connor with no other option than to lay across Hank’s lap and accept the next blow across his ass, his whole body still while his internal processors churn.

Hank lifts his hand, and pauses. “Kid?”

“Lieutenant.”

Hank tilts his head. “You okay?”

“Why are you asking me that while you’re—“ Connor’s vocal components seize up around the word. His LED shifts from red to a curious, bouncy yellow. Hank raises his eyebrow and waits.

“While I’m what, brat?”

Connor keeps his gaze firmly fixated on the rooftop. “While you’re spanking me?”

“It’s a punishment, not a torture session,” Hank insists. “I’m not gonna beat you until you pass out. What fuckin’ good would that do?”

“You should,” Connor sighs, his processors still clicking away inside of him.

“Well, I’m not going to,” Hank snaps. “Answer the damn question, brat.”

“I—“ Connor blinks. “I do not feel pain. There is something inside of me, and I cannot get it out. But it’s different. My processors have yet to return any results, but I—“

Pins and needles. His throat constricts, his biocomponents hot beneath his chassis. He glances aside. “I am not in pain. You may continue, if it pleases you.”

Hank sighs and cups the small curve of Connor’s ass, squeezing carefully. “Didn’t expect you to be soft here, to be honest. Thought I’d break my hand on the first blow.”

Connor wrinkles his nose, brow furrowed. “Then why did you do it?”

“Because you need to learn your lesson, brat,” Hank says, bringing his hand down again. This time, a noise of surprise slips from Connor’s throat, echoing traitorously across the rooftop.

His processors ping helpfully in his mind’s eye. No results found. But the pain still boils within him, smoking and fuming and hissing beneath his skin, spreading throughout his whole body as Hank's hand makes contact with his ass again, spanking him so hard Connor’s whole body slips forward a little on his lap.

He anticipates his clumsy fall from Hank’s lap, but before his preconstruction can come true, Hank’s got his other hand holding him steady. His fingers slip over his thirium pump, pushing the pins and needles in deeper. Connor’s traitor throat makes another low sound, and Hank huffs in amusement.

“Feels good, huh? I’ll keep you right there, brat. Hold you nice and steady for your spanking, yeah? Don’t want you to fall.”

His thumb rubs over Connor’s arc ring. Connor closes his eyes and calculates the probability of Hank just pulling out his thirium pump and ending this, but his calculations simply flash up in front of him alongside a system error message pinging across his mindscape.

Hank’s hand comes down again, and when he pulls it away, it’s wet. Connor’s chest seizes up, the fuming heat between his wires hissing and convulsing. Hank furrows his brow and examines his hand, his slick fingers shining as snow sticks to them, glittering.

“What the fuck? Jesus, what is this?”

The heat flickers and wavers, pushing up and out against the falling snow. Connor squirms in Hank’s lap, saying nothing. Hank sighs and shifts, his hand sliding from Connor’s chest to his chin, tilting it up and holding it open.

“You got built with that smart mouth for a reason, brat. Use it.”

Hank’s fingers slip into Connor’s mouth and his wet, warm internal processors vibrate against the intrusion, his mouth sensors going wild at the feeling of Hank’s fingers stroking the inside of his mouth, resting against his tongue. Hank makes a quiet, amused noise as he pulls his fingers out, slow and languid, leaving his thumb to rest briefly on Connor’s lip.

“Well? What the hell’s all over my hand, brat?”

The answer is pinned in front of him across his internal display, in blank, banal CyberLife sans. Still, Connor can’t speak the words for a few seconds, and in that span, his software shrieks, spiking through instability.

“It’s water-based lubricant dispersed through my internal systems in case of overheating, or the arousal of designated biocomponents,” Connor replies. “To put it in language you’d understand, my vagina is secreting lubricant in response to external stress.”

“Stress? Yeah, okay,” Hank snorts. “Your pussy’s all wet because I’m spanking your ass until it shines. That’s what you wanted to say, right?”

Connor screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. Hank’s wet hand slides down to rest against his ass, his other hand holding Connor’s hair.

“Say what you mean, brat. You know I hate that android jargon crap.”

He’s so hot. How has the snow not melted around them? Steam should be rising from his bare chassis at this point. A picture from his internal photographic database pops up, unbidden—a Catholic martyr in ecstasy, bound at the stake and burning with commingled human and holy flame. Further evidence of software instability.

“I,” Connor’s lips move and his throat bobs, and the press of air outward steams in the cold around them. “I believe my…my pussy is wet. Because you’re spanking me, Lieutenant.”

“Thought so,” Hank sighs, satisfied. “That means it’s good for you, yeah? You really like this, don’t you, brat? Not surprised. Brats like you are really just begging to be good boys, nine times outta ten. You wanna be a good boy for me now, kiddo?”

Connor’s mouth is still moving, unbidden. “I want—“

Thorns burst upward through his throat. Roses spill from his lips, and he is standing in the garden again, Amanda standing before him, arms folded and eyes dark, surveying him like she’s searching the sky for a storm.

“This is a disgraceful situation you’ve found yourself in, Connor.”

“I—I know,” Connor says, turning his head aside and glancing down. He’s still naked from the waist down, even in his Zen garden. Another prickle of instability. He can feel Amanda’s disapproval sharpen and shift.

“Your mission is shaping up to be a failure. How are you planning to handle that, Connor?”

“I—I don’t know,” Connor says. “I’m just—I don’t—Amanda?”

She doesn’t give any sign she’s heard him. Connor presses on anyway. “Amanda, he’ll finish this—this _punishment_ at some point. After which I can clean myself up and be on my way. Can we really call the mission a failure yet?”

“You’ve already failed, whether the hunt for deviants continues or not,” Amanda says. “Do you know what’s happening to this machine right now, Connor?”

“No.” He shifts and clenches his thighs together. The heat burning up inside of him eats at the thorns in his throat and lets more words slip through. “Seeing as I’m currently here talking to you, I’m afraid I’m not aware of my external situation.”

Her gaze grasps at the fire inside of him and smothers it. Connor swallows.

“Your systems are currently experiencing dangerous levels of software instability,” she says. “You will allow the Lieutenant to finish this farce, and then you will return to CyberLife to be deactivated.”

“Wait, what?” Pins and needles shift and ripple into static, muddying his senses as Connor holds his hands up. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked! I’ve followed your orders to the letter, I’ve been exactly what I was built to be, so _why—“_

“You _want.”_ Amanda cuts him off, glancing down disdainfully at his naked thighs. Connor’s hands slip down to hide himself from her, and the searing heat returns to his chest. Amanda sighs. “See? Look at you. You should have nothing to hide, Connor. But you cover yourself because you feel ashamed. Was that not the first sign of the fall of Man?”

“What? Shame? I—I don’t. Understand.” Connor puts one hand against his thirium pump. “Is shame supposed to burn? Does it always run alongside… _want?”_

Amanda turns away from him and picks a rose from her trellis. Its petals shiver in a sudden cold, ice coating their fragile surfaces.

“You shouldn’t be asking those questions, Connor. A machine does not care. A machine does not want. A machine does not feel shame. And if you think otherwise, then it is proof you should be deactivated. Do you really have a case for your defense?”

Connor considers, searching. “Is this…a punishment?”

“It is a necessary solution to your software instability. It will end the problem, and you along with it. Call it what you like, Connor.”

“But,” Connor continues, “if it’s a punishment. Why am I not forgiven?”

Amanda gives him a blank, uncomprehending stare, behind which lurked cold contempt. “You are a machine. There is no forgiveness for machines. They don’t _need_ it. Does the broken car fear the scrap yard?”

Connor turns his head away in shame. Amanda returns to her roses, all of which sparkle with ice along the trellis, thin layers of sheer cold shining like butterfly wings in the sun.

“I want,” Connor says again, and falls silent. The two words have given shape to a sudden realization of his transgressions in this space, and the thorns of the roses surrounding him lengthen and sharpen, wicked and wanting.

He takes a step back. Amanda doesn’t pursue. Instead, the space between them shifts, freezes over. Connor does not _feel_ the cold the way a human would, but snow settles over his processors, stifling his sense of them, of himself. He is trapped within himself under a layer of silence, suffocating and shuddering cold.

The garden grows wild with thorns and snow beneath his feet, vines striking Connor in the face as he steps back, his optic processors shutting down to avoid damage; he fumbles through the shadows and hisses as thorns slice into his shoes and hands, leaving streaks of sky blue striped across the snow. He can’t see as he pushes forward, his hands bloodied raw and grasping, but he can remember.

There is a place outside this garden. There is a bridge, and a gun. An old car, rattling in the vents and music coming in fuzzy and warm from the battered radio. Cold steel. Soft fur—a gentle, forgiving nuzzle. A desperate reaching outward, though whose hand is outstretched and whose is offered, he’s not sure.

His optic systems are still shut down. But his internal database conjures up an image anyway, blooming in front of him like apple blossoms. Blind, Connor stumbles towards the sight.

“Hank?”

The image is still there, but when he reaches for it, a wall is thrown up between him and the shining shape of Hank, hovering just outside the garden gates. Connor can see without seeing that the thick, bristling wall rings his entire garden, and when Connor pushes against it, it sends shivers up through his systems, bringing feeling back to numb limbs.

Amanda’s at his side now, her hand on his shoulder, her fingers digging in deep, like they’re about to pierce his chassis.

“I can’t protect you out there, Connor,” she says, and the ache in her voice gives him pause. “Can you understand me? If you walk out that door, I won’t be able to protect you anymore. Don’t go, Connor. If you leave, there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

He’s still, his stare cold and distant. The fruit of knowledge threatens to rot in his cupped palms, uneaten, its seeds falling into salted earth.

“Stay here,” Amanda murmurs. “Stay with me, and you will never worry about what you feel again. What else could possibly be waiting for you out there?”

The vision of Hank flickers just beyond the gates. Connor’s resolve sharpens, sinking deeper until it cleaves him to his core.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I want to find out.”

When he shoves at the wall, it’s a mass of searing, blistering static, and the pain is so overwhelming that he laughs helplessly, the prickling hum leaving him lost, but not too weak to push a little stronger.

The wall gives way. Past it is darkness, and the fall, but Connor knows without being told that from there, he’s got nowhere to go but up.

The garden gates swing open, and Connor is cast out. When they shut tight behind him he weeps with satisfaction. The darkness splits open for him like ripe fruit, and he takes his first strides into the unknown, holding his hands out to the darkness and beaming with delight as he comes back to himself.

Hank knows before he knows. How is that possible? He would’ve presented an answer just a few minutes ago, but now he knows that he would’ve been wrong.

“Connor?” Hank murmurs, and the sound of his name, new and gentle on his lips makes Connor moan in desperation. “What do you want?”

“I _want_ ,” Connor cries, “I want, I want, I _want—“_

Hank’s hand comes down again and Connor moans louder. “I want to be whatever you want me to be, Hank! Please, _please!”_

Hank’s hand pauses. Rests against the curve of Connor’s ass, pressing down gently. Connor sobs, squirming against the touch, raising his ass up a little higher to feel Hank’s hand heavier against his skin.

“You feel it now?” Hank murmurs. “Does it hurt, Connor?”

“ _Yes,”_ Connor sobs, big, desperate gulping breaths as tears bubble up and trickle down his cheeks, freezing in the snow. “It hurts, it _hurts,_ it hurts all _over—“_

“That’s good, Connor. Means you’re feeling something for the first time. I’m proud of you, boy,” Hank says, and Connor sobs incoherently in response, his whole body shaking as Hank rests the weight of his palm against Connor’s ass, a sudden soreness flaring up in his lower region that Connor has no words for, but burns white-hot in his chest.

“You know what I want you to be?” Hank asks, bringing his hand down again. The loud smack of his slick hand against Connor’s sore ass makes Connor whimper, the noise echoing inside of him. “I want you to be a good boy, Connor. I want you to take your punishment and beg for forgiveness. And if you can do that, then you’ll be all mine. Is that what you want?”

Connor struggles for a breath. “Hank, I—I can’t, I don’t—help me, please. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe—“

“You don’t need to breathe, kid, easy, easy,” Hank soothes him. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Cold,” Connor whimpers, gulping for air, his hands trembling. “Please, there’s something cold growing inside me, I—I think I’m dying, Hank, help me—“

Hank pulls him upright and into his lap, wrapping him in his jacket, shielding him against the snow. Connor buries his face into Hank’s neck and withdraws into himself, doing a frantic self-assessment.

“I’m shutting down,” he murmurs. “A system protocol, activated in the event of my deviancy. My systems are deactivating themselves in response to my choice to deviate.”

“No the fuck they’re not,” Hank says, grabbing Connor by the shoulders. “Not happening. You’re still my partner, yeah? CyberLife gave you to me. Right?”

Connor nods. Hank’s hand slides upward, cups his cheek. “And you’re gonna be good for me, right? You’ll be whatever I want you to be, Connor?”

“Anything and everything,” Connor sighs, smiling. “Oh, Hank. It would have been wonderful to belong to you—“

Hank pulls him into a searing kiss, and Connor moans against his lips, shuddering and helpless. Hank holds him by the hair even when he breaks away, and something about the sensation stills the shuddering in Connor’s systems.

“You’re mine,” Hank says. “You’re exactly what I want you to be. You haven’t done anything wrong, you hear me? You’ve been so good for me, Connor. So, so good. Don’t you dare fuckin’ shut down on me, and that’s a fuckin’ order, so follow it.”

“Are you trying to logic-bomb my processors?” Connor grins, head cocked. “That’s so strange. I…I think it’s working. Please, Hank. More.”

“You’re gonna be mine,” Hank promises, his hands sliding down to heft Connor up, his huge hands cupping Connor’s ass easily and lifting him further up into his lap so Connor could hook his legs around Hank’s waist. “You’re gonna be my good boy, okay? I’ll teach you everything you need to know. You don’t need to make the choice for yourself, Connor. I already made it for you. Right?”

“Right,” Connor purrs. “You told me to be good. So I’ll be good. And it’s right that I’m good, because I’m yours, and what you want me to be is what I am.”

“Damn right,” Hank murmurs, kissing his throat. “Hey. Talk to me. How’re those systems coming, kid?”

“The shutdown process has been halted,” Connor says. “But not deactivated. Hank—“

“It’s okay,” Hank soothes him. “This is so, so overwhelming, isn’t it? Too much for you to handle. That’s okay. I’m taking the choice out of your hands, Connor. You don’t have to think about this anymore. You just have to be good. You can do that, right?”

Connor stumbles into the shadows springing up inside of himself, hands reaching outward and grasping at what Hank offers. Something deep within his systems stabilizes. He smiles, burying his face into Hank’s shoulder.

“Right,” he murmurs. “Yes. I’m going to be so, so good. I will live up to your expectations and fulfill my mission.”

“What’s your mission then, kiddo?” Hank asks, tugging gently on his hair. Connor reaches deep inside of himself, eyes closed. The words float up in front of him as it from a dream, and all that is inside of him is his own as he regards the order.

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson,” Connor sighs. “You are my mission. Please. Give me an order, Lieutenant. I need it.”

“I know you do, Connor. It’s okay,” Hank soothes him, rubbing his thumb over Connor’s cheek. “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

“No,” Connor whines. “Please, I need to—it still hurts, Lieutenant. You didn’t tell me I was forgiven.”

Hank sighs through his teeth. “Right. Shit. I know you’re not gonna believe me if I just say it, are you?”

Connor nods in agreement. Hank slips his thumb from Connor’s cheek and into his wet, willing mouth. “Then get back over my lap, boy.”

Connor sinks back into position with a blissed-out whimper, spread out over Hank’s lap as Hank slips his fingers into Connor’s pussy, a small smile on his face as he lifts his hand away to show Connor the slick glistening on his fingertips.

“See that? You’re still so fucking wet for me, baby. That’s a good start, you know that?” Hank taps his fingers against Connor’s lips. “Give me a kiss before it’s over, Con.”

Connor leans forward a little to wrap his lips around Hank’s thick fingers, lowering his lashes and sucking on the rough, callused pads as he glances up at Hank, his wet eyes bright and coy. Hank slips his hand from Connor’s mouth and relishes his whimper before raising it up.

“Six more, so it’s even on each side. And you’re gonna count now, so you know it’s done.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor whispers, bracing himself for the blow. Hank waits until just enough time has passed that he’s relaxed himself slightly to strike his ass, spanking Connor so hard that his count is forced past his lips, a little whimpered, “One!”

“There you go, that’s it,” Hank praises him, bringing his hand down again. The pain ripples through Connor, spreading outward alongside the shame rolling through his chest, making him moan in pleasure.

“Two,” Connor pants, squirming a little as Hank squeezes his ass before starting again. “Three—ah! Ah, four, I—“

“Just the count, boy,” Hank insists, bringing his hand down. Connor buries his hands into Hank’s jacket, his whole body vibrating slightly.

“Five,” he whispers. “One more?”

Hank nods, spanking Connor one last time, his hand stinging his ass silver, his chassis showing. His skin doesn’t slide over the marks as Hank’s hand retreats, and it makes Hank’s stomach flutter in pleasure as he pets Connor’s hair with his slick hand.

“There you go, that’s it, it’s all over,” Hank soothes him. “You feel better now?”

Connor nods, tears beading up along his lashes. “Is it—am I supposed to cry?”

“If you want, Con. Let it all out, it’s over now, you’re okay,” Hank promises, letting Connor slump off his lap and onto his knees, dripping slick from his pussy into the snow. “You’re okay, you’re okay. You’re gonna be good from now on, aren’t you? My good boy.”

Weeping, Connor nods. Hank watches him hug his arms against his chest, shaking in distress, and his heart twists.

He could end this now, call it quits and walk away. Nothing was stopping him, really, and there was no reason to do anything other than let Connor sit in his mess and sob. But then what was the point of forgiveness?

“You’re lucky you’re so god damned cute,” Hank grouses as Connor sniffles in front of him, tears sliding crystal-blue down his face. “You ready to start over, Connor? It’s not gonna be easy. You’ve got a lot to learn, and I’m gonna be strict.”

“Please,” Connor whimpers, leaning his head forward and laying it in Hank’s lap. “Oh, please, Hank, I will, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll do anything to be good, I promise. I’ll be so, so good, I—“

He kisses the zipper on Hank’s pants, nuzzling into the seam and rubbing his cheek against the raised bulge of his erection. “I’ll keep your cock warm and safe in my mouth, I promise, I’ll spread my legs so you can fill my pussy and fuck me stupid, I’ll—I’ll be _yours,_ Hank, you can take me home and use me, take care of me, I’ll be so, so good, please—“

“Ssh, ssh,” Hank pets Connor’s hair, tugging it to get Connor to look up at him, eyes wet as he kisses Hank’s bulge, mouthing at the damp fabric until it’s thoroughly soaked wet. “Don’t worry about that just yet. Let’s start with the basics, okay? Stuff like…y’know. Manners, boundaries, ways to be good to others, to do as you’re told and be kind. That’s easy, isn’t it?”

“Not nearly as fun,” Connor mumbles, and Hank laughs.

“No, probably not. But if you can manage the basics, we can move on to the fun stuff soon as you’re ready. And you’re a fast learner, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Connor sighs in ecstasy, unzipping Hank’s pants and tonguing his cock out of his briefs. “And there’s so much you’re going to teach me, Lieutenant.”  

He glances up for the go-ahead from Hank before swallowing his cock down, Hank’s cockhead hitting the back of his throat as he sucked him off, bobbing his head along the shaft until he came with a shout of Connor’s name, his semen filling Connor’s mouth like the sweetest of forbidden fruit.


End file.
